Beauty and Terror
by Lady Rhapsody
Summary: B/V - The first time she saw him was the last time she believed in the comfortable world they had created for themselves. It was the first time she realized that Goku was not invincible, that they were not alone, that they were not to be innocent any longer.
1. Chapter 1

_l__et everything happen to you__  
_**b****eauty and terror**_  
__j__ust keep going__  
__n__o feeling is final_

. . .

The first time she saw him was on television.

The first time she saw him was the last time she believed in the comfortable world they had created for themselves. It was the first time she realized that Goku was not invincible, that they were not alone, that they were not to be innocent any longer.

He was savaging her best friend, but there was beauty in it. She had known battle all of her life, but his violence was different. Studied, methodological, precise... passionate? Goku fought for the opportunity of a challenge; this Vejita fought for the _feeling_ of destruction.

She watched until her boyfriend was killed, then collapsed into her friends' arms. As she cried, she knew that things would never be the same.

Bulma was terrified.

. . .

Namek was the worst adventure she had partaken in yet. And she had been dragged along on some horrible adventures. She would never tell any of them, but she regretted insisting on coming. She could have taught one of them to fly the ship... perhaps.

She had thought she would never see the Saiya-jin Prince Vejita again, had put his malevolent presence from her mind as best she could. Goku was back from the dead, on his way to save them, back on his pedestal where they needed him. They none of them liked to be reminded that he had nearly been defeated.

Krillen and Gohan had left her alone. She had a definite problem with it, but was trying to not let it show. She was a perfectly self-sufficient woman, and she had her technology to protect her. Why would any of the powerhouses running around take any notice of a power signature as insignificant as hers? She busied herself tinkering with spare parts, trying to create something to aid their cause.

As she deftly fitted parts together, she thought of him – the killer who had shattered their peace, who haunted her dreams.

. . .

He landed not far from where the human sat. He could not see her, but Vejita could sense her, as tiny and weak as she was. He approached slowly, silently. Her sneaky little friends had stolen his dragonballs, this he was certain of, and he was going to get them back at any cost.

She was in the entrance of the cave they were holing up in, leaning against the rock. She was intent on the objects in her hands, muttering to herself. He was going to move to scare her, but he hesitated.

He hated the way she was unabashedly perched outside her hiding place, as if the whole world were hers, as if monsters like him weren't roaming about. He hated the paleness of her skin, which had never endured the elements or abuse, and he hated the silky hair that partially concealed her naïve little face.

He hated her, but it did not make her any less beautiful.

. . .

She hated him, but that did not mean she did not think he was beautiful. Not traditionally handsome, but venomously beautiful, like a villain in a fairy story.

He had been living at Capsule Corp for months, but she had not had much chance to study him. He had been locking himself in the gravity room night and day, and when she did see him it was fleetingly, on the way up to bed or into the kitchen. It was just as well – if he had spoken to her, she would have had nothing productive to say.

When they did speak, they fought, and damn could the man fight. He was no less cunning in verbal combat than he was in physical, a lesson she was learning the hard way. She didn't want to admit why she rose to the occasion; he was looking for a reaction, and she gave it to him, gladly.

She continually reacted, because she wanted to see his face transform in anger and amusement.

He only really showed himself when he was fighting. He was like a statue the rest of the time, emotionless and unreadable. She could only see him when she peeked in the gravity room windows, or was screaming at him about dirty dishes. In those moments, she knew terror, and something perhaps more potent.

Bulma had been numb since their idyllic world was shattered, but at least when she felt that terror, she felt _alive._

. . .

In his previous life, he had not been allowed near beauty.

He was always being punished for something, and if he was not, he was steering clear of anything good. He was tainted. He was the harbinger of death, a force of darkness in the universe. What right had the likes of him to beauty? The only beauty he knew was the vibrant glow of ki, the harsh light of an alien moon, the rich color of blood.

Now, on this planet, this frivolous backwater paradise of a planet, he was constantly surrounded by it. Wildflowers, sunsets, serene forests... it was as if he were in a dream he could not wake up from. He should have been grateful, but in reality he was uncomfortable.

He thought about when he had watched his hostess on Namek, before he had used her to ransom the dragonballs back from her cowardly friends. He had thought her innocent then, and she still was relative to someone like him, but she was changing. He saw her watching him, following him with her bright eyes when she thought he wouldn't notice. She was more brooding, quieter, less free with herself, and he knew it was his fault. He was tainting her; he was the snake in the grass of this Eden.

They fought often and explosively, and he would be lying to himself if he said he did not enjoy it. He liked watching her get worked up. He liked seeing her innocence marred with anger. It was an impulse – he had found something beautiful, and now he had to twist it.

He was sitting outside, as far away from her and her friends as he could manage while remaining in the courtyard. He was always on the edge of their group, where everyone would feel wary but somewhat comfortable. Bulma laughed with them, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. Her blue eyes met his for a short second before she looked away, but he still caught the fear in them.

She was so beautiful, and it terrified him.

. . .

Lady Rhapsody

Another chapter will follow. For followers of "Camouflage", do not worry – I'm working on it.

The opening poem is from Rilke.


	2. Chapter 2

_i've been watching your world from afar_

_i've been trying to be where you are_

_and i've been secretly falling apart, unseen_

_to me, you're strange and you're beautiful_

_. . ._

She lay in the grass with the Z senshi, eyes to the sky in anticipation of the solar eclipse. The light had already begun to fade; despite her wonder, the effect was eerie. They became hushed as it slowly grew darker. Yamcha reached for her hand; she pretended she did not notice.

After a few moments, her friends became distracted with discussion of the androids, which was enough motivation for her to get to her feet and head back towards the house. As she passed the garden, a soft noise stopped her in her tracks.

He sat facing the eclipse, tawny skin rendered darker by the strained light. His eyes were closed, and for the first time since he had moved in, he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He was whispering to himself in a cacophonous language– no, _chanting_. She watched him muttering prayers that no one else remembered, in a tongue forgotten by all, and felt her chest tighten.

Vejita was alone in the entire universe, the last living being with knowledge of his culture. If her friends failed, she too would someday know that kind of utter solitude.

He stopped to take a breath, to tighten a fist, then began his chant again. The intensity of the expression on his face stayed with her, long after she stepped out of the haunting light and into the compound.

It was then that she stopped seeing him as a monster, and began to nurse her strange obsession with him as a man.

**. . .**

He found all humans to be strange, but she was the strangest of all.

It was inexplicable; he often caught himself watching her as she went about the activities of her pathetic little life. He could not explain his interest in her, even to himself.

She was almost always the only person besides himself awake in the early mornings; he would pass by her on his way outside, sipping her coffee and watching the dew mist off the lawn, solemn in a way she never was when she thought people were looking. He would almost as frequently find her in her lab, sleeping off an all-nighter, long hair splayed across blueprints too complex for anyone else to understand.

She complained about her friends' single-minded dedication to violence, yet he would find diagrams for weapons of mass destruction on the kitchen table and outlines of android battle scenarios abandoned in front of the television.

She was distraught when her friends did not have time to visit her, and yet he had seen her deflect the scarred weakling's recent attempts to rekindle their relationship.

Her friends shrunk from him in terror; she was scared, but she met his gaze and responded to his barbs with genuine ferocity.

She was innocent, by his standards almost unbearably so, but when they fought, he got the sense that they were _both_ aware of where they would eventually, inevitably end up.

Now he watched her lean against the doorway of his balcony, smoking a cigarette, the moonlight casting shadows on her pale, naked skin. Humans were extremely fragile, he had discovered, but this one was a fighter. It was the first time their heat had translated into something more, and he knew it would not be the last. She studied him unabashedly as she exhaled smoke, lips curled into an ironic smile.

This Bulma, the one with the glowing blue eyes and flushed soft skin, was the strangest; this Bulma, the only person who had ever looked at him like _that_, was undeniably the most beautiful.

**. . .**

Lady Rhapsody

The opening lyrics are from "Strange and Beautiful" by Aqualung.

**. . . **


	3. Chapter 3

_for beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror  
which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so,  
because it serenely disdains to destroy us.  
every angel is terrible_

**. . . **

He had hated her ever since he first noticed her on Namek.

He hated her because she was courageous, and he was scared.

She was not ignorant of the threat he posed, but she let her guard down anyway. He would lie awake after she had fallen asleep and watch her fragile rib cage rise and depress, her perfect eyelashes fluttering against her perfect fucking cheekbones, and it was all he could do to not snuff out her perfect little life right then, while she was vulnerable and could not implore him for mercy with those perfect blue eyes of hers.

He would only let himself touch her after he had quelled the monster. He would allow himself the briefest contact – no one could have mistaken it for human affection – and then slip out of the room to train. When he returned in the morning, she was always gone, the only evidence of her presence the lingering scent of her perfume and a crumpled pillow.

He hated her because she made him regret.

He was under no delusion about what he was; he did not regret the things he had done in the past – the sadistic or the honorable. But there was something about her, about being on this planet, that made him... _contemplative._ It was not easy to push forward with a blind eye to the past anymore.

She and her friends were celebrating a holiday involving "fireworks" and an inordinate amount of the noise and bother. They had gathered around a bonfire on the CC grounds, drinking and chasing each other like children, and he barely spared them a glance as he moved from the gravity chamber towards the house.

She spotted him, and followed. She asked him to stay, to "relax" with them. They rarely spoke outside of fights or a whisper in the bedroom; she was going out on a limb, but he grudgingly noted that she was not afraid.

He looked to the fire, where they caroused like they weren't all going to be dead in a few short years, like nothing bad had ever happened to them and never would. It was too late for him; he knew that, and he had accepted it. He had seen too much, done too much, to go back now. The damned were not permitted to bask in the light, and he had already had the audacity to _touch_ it.

Instead, he memorized how her face looked, illuminated by the colored fireworks above but lit from within. In the years to come, he would often think of this moment, when she had looked at him with such hope, and he had _let_ her, knowing he could never give her what she wanted.

He hated her because she compelled him to _feel_ again.

For a short while, during a certain time of year, his home planet was visible from Earth. He had known it was coming, but the physical sight of the place he carried within him was more jarring than he had anticipated. He stood for a moment, wondering what it was going to feel like when the celestial light finally dimmed, never to be seen again, and realized something.

He wanted to show her.

He told himself it was because everyone else was too ignorant to understand how a dead planet could be seen, but he knew better. He wanted to show her because he knew how she would react, how she would make him _feel_.

In the middle of the night, rather than remaining in bed while she went out on the balcony to smoke, he followed her out. When he pointed out the tiny point of light with gruff words and a nonchalant gesture, she _glowed_ and practically tackled him, demanding that they celebrate.

He watched her run off to get something called "champagne" and allowed himself one small smile before crossing his arms again.

**. . . **

He hated her because she loved him.

He knew what love was; he had never had it, not in a pure form, but he knew what it looked like.

It was her repairing the gravity chamber at the end of a long day, blazer discarded, grease staining her delicate blouse and smeared on her cheeks.

It was her respect of his need for space, and for silence. In bed, she did not cling to him – she would move to the balcony to smoke, or study him quietly with her sharp eyes before drifting off to sleep.

It was her unwavering belief in his strength, even as it undermined her confidence in her friends. He overheard her speaking to the weakling one day, after he had dared to mock him for training so furiously. The weakling did not think he could ever beat Kakkarott; she was quick to admonish him.

"Don't you understand? _He already has_, or else you wouldn't be torturing yourselves training; you would be at home, waiting for Goku to kill the bad guy. The day he fought Vejita, he needed help, and even with that he barely won. It hasn't been the same ever since."

After that conversation, the weakling visited less frequently, and Vejita was finally forced to acknowledge his grudging respect for her.

It was in the way she touched him. Their affair had ignited like wildfire, and contact initially had been passionate and furious. Now, her hands lingered on his waist, caressing instead of grasping, and if he was honest with himself, he did not mind. If he had been training prior to bed, she would rub his shoulders, the ends of her long hair tickling his back.

She loved him; he _let_ her. And for that, he hated himself.

**. . . **

Lady Rhapsody

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4

_st__op my heart, and my brain will start to beat_

_and if you consume my brain with fire_

_i'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood_

**. . .**

She couldn't have put a finger on when, but quiet obsession became compulsive habit, and he became a fixture of her everyday life.

They had only used to cross paths in the kitchen, where they would assemble their meals and exchange fleeting glances that meant that they would not be spending the night alone. She knew now that he had been avoiding her during the day, because she gradually began to encounter him more frequently. Nothing that Vejita did was by accident.

It was increasingly common that she when she opened her eyes, he was there, dozing in the dim morning light beside her. He slept fitfully, regardless of the day's activities, brow furrowed and fists clenched. Even if she was exhausted, she would fight to remain awake, studying him with hooded eyes until his musky scent lulled her back to sleep.

She would surface between laps in the pool to find him meditating or lounging on a lawn chair, watching her swim back and forth. She moved slowly, because she wanted to the savor the feeling of his eyes on her. He would usually only lift his head in silent greeting, but several times he commented on the lackadaisical pace of her exercise before continuing on to the gravity room.

When she worked on said gravity room, he elected to stand a few feet away instead of exercising outside, keen dark eyes following the ministrations of her tools. Once, after she smeared grease on her cheek, he cleaned it with a hard hand and they had ended up making love on the floor.

They had begun to converse beyond heated words in the bedroom, and she found that the Saiyan possessed a dark sense of humor. But most of the time, he was serious, so serious... She was fascinated by the haunting glimpses of his past that he sparingly offered her, knowing how lucky she was to be hearing them. It took all of her courage to ask, and he would not always oblige her, but she learned more than she had expected. She hoped that the whispered conversations, made easier by the darkness of the bedroom and the warmth of naked skin, meant as much to him as they did to her.

He came to her room one night when she was sick; rather than leaving to sleep alone, he pulled the covers back to lay beside her. She was miserable and so did not care if he turned her down – she asked him to speak to her in the Saiyan language, and was rewarded with a few brusque sentences. She mimicked the words, to which he responded that human vocal cords were almost as weak as their bodies. She caught a glimpse of a smirk before he turned over, and lived off of the conversation and the peaceful feeling of his arm slung across her back for days.

She once came across him on her way from her labs to the kitchen, standing in the hallway looking at the photos on the wall. She lingered beside him, following his gaze. He moved from an image of her with Goku when they were very young, flashing a silly grin from beneath messy bangs, to newspaper clippings and gossip columns featuring her college accomplishments and misadventures, to a shot of her and Yamcha, arms entwined, staring into each others eyes. He looked at that one the longest before leaving her behind to follow the smell of dinner cooking. She wondered what he saw in those pictures – could he tell that she was not the same girl, that because of _him, _she had changed?

She knew that he was aware of her feelings for him, because she could no longer hide them. They were getting her through her long work days and carrying her past the dread of the upcoming battle. Her reckless heart would not release him, and she was terrified that anyone who looked at her could tell.

She knew that he was not a good person, that she should think like the others and be wary of him, but the truth was that she thought his darkness was what made him beautiful.

The truth was that she loved him.

**. . . **

He was always around, but never really there.

When she looked into his eyes, she could tell; he was reliving his past like a broken record, constantly marinating the details in his head, turning them into fuel for his rage. He might have been lying next to her, but he was always a million miles away. It made her weak, foolish heart ache to see him locked in a prison of his own making.

If she was being honest with herself, it hurt her more that he did not care to be a part of their world.

The only time she could get him to be present, to look at her and actually _see_ her, was when they touched. She had come to resent the fact that they were limited to the physical, but was willing to grasp at whatever she could get. When they were having sex, she could look into his eyes and see her own reflection rather than a replay of his imagined failures. He would never have told her he that thought she was beautiful, but she could see it was so when he held her.

He was tortured, and she only knew one way to make him better.

**. . .**

Lady Rhapsody

Opening poem by Rilke.

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5

_in the night, i wish to speak with the angel_

_to find out if she recognizes my eyes, _

_if she will ask me: do you see eden? _

_and i'll reply: eden burns_

**. . .**

He was nothing if not observant, and so he was aware that she still saw the weakling on a semi-regular basis. Whatever it was they were doing, it did not often include sex, or else he would have smelled it on her when she came to him, but regardless, the sight of her skipping out to his car made him feel... strange.

He told himself that even if she were not emotionally attached to the weakling, he would feel the same way. The human was pathetic, and did not deserve to breathe the same air as a warrior like himself, let alone share the same dinner table. So he glared, and he made derogatory comments, all the while visualizing the myriad ways he could extricate the weakling from his life.

He and Bulma's liaisons were never planned, but had assumed regularity that seldom faltered, and so when she failed to show up one evening, Vejita found himself oddly perturbed. It was a stormy summer night, his favorite kind of Earth weather, and so he went to sit on the roof of the compound, telling himself he was merely enjoying the storm, not waiting for her.

The feeble interior light of the weakling's car aided his Saiyan eyes in seeing the human place a small, pathetic kiss upon Bulma's cheek. Her cheek, because she had turned her face at the last moment. He should have been satisfied – she was finally coming to her senses – but somehow he was not. He wanted the man dead, gone, forgotten forever, and did not want to look into his reasons why; all he could articulate to himself was that the Saiyan Prince shared with no one.

She exited the car, and instead of rushing into the shelter of the house, stood under the downpour. After the weakling's tail-lights faded in the distance, she meandered through the entrance of the compound and towards the backyard, her elaborate hairstyle clinging to bare shoulders. He crossed his arms and watched her, feeling something inside shift at the sight of her so undone.

It was dark, but lightning lit the path to her mother's gazebo. Her hair was a neon flash, her skin pale as she executed a little twirl before seeking shelter beneath the thatched roof. She looked carefree in a way he could not understand, in a way that should have made him feel guilty for the way he was seeping into her life but sadly did not.

She settled into one of the chairs to watch the storm, humming and twisting the wet locks of her hair between her fingers. He wondered if she was happy because of the weakling, or the weather, or because she was planning on coming to him. Could she really still be that naïve?

He descended from the roof and approached her, relishing the feeling of the warm clean rain washing away the sweat of his earlier workout. She sighted him when he was only a few feet away, and flashed him a bright, disarming smile. The sodden hair plastered to her head made her eyes look wider, more innocent, and he felt that _twinge_ again.

"The lightning, it makes you look so..." She trailed off, looking not at him but _in_ him. She was so delusional, whatever she saw actually made her brighter. "I think this is what you will look like when you become a Super Saiyan."

He felt twisted pleasure at the knowledge that she was so certain of his impending transformation. He wondered if she had shared this information with the weakling, if it had soured their dinner conversation and made the idiot grin fade from his lips. He leaned against the railing of the gazebo and crossed his arms, watching her as she turned her attention back to the sky.

"I've always imagined that this is what having ki feels like," she murmured as a particularly powerful bolt illuminated the yard around them. "Electrifying and dangerous, all at the same time."

He studied her as she leaned over the railing, no longer sheltered from the storm. She turned her face the sky, lifted her arms, and let it soak her. A particularly loud clap of thunder made her jump; she turned to him with a thrilled grin. He had been to countless galaxies, met and exterminated countless species, but could not recall seeing anything more beautiful.

**. . .**

They made love with the windows open.

The scent of sex mingling with the atmosphere of the storm was an aroma that she would forever associate with _him_, with this electric night after which nothing was the same. There had been something different about his demeanor, something both foreboding and exciting in the air around them. It had been hard to fall asleep, but the hard plane of his skin under her cheek was enough to content her.

When she awoke, he was still there. His hands on her body were a warm contrast to the crisp morning air that seeped through the still open windows, his voice deepened in sleepy leisure. She lay watching the dawn light change from cool blue to blush pink, willing it to slow its pace, just this once, just for her.

When the pink turned to gold, and the sunny sky could be glimpsed through the curtains, he shifted. She knew she had crossed their invisible boundary, and slowly slid from the bed. He usually rose first, the search for his training shorts the signal to leave and begin her own day, but to maintain some shred of her dignity she initiated their separation.

Today, he watched her pull her shirt over her head – the only article of clothing she had bothered to don before making the short trip to his room – his expression unreadable. Being the center of his attention made her feel singularly beautiful, and did little to ease her terror at the growing realization that she loved this man.

She moved to leave, but halted at the unexpected sound of his voice.

"Bulma."

Her name on his tongue was arresting; he held her eyes for a long moment, then released her with an almost imperceptible nod. She turned with the joyous certainty that he felt it, too – the strange, powerful attraction that had taken hold.

She opened the door at the precise moment Yamcha was passing it, carrying twin beverages on his way to her room.

**. . .**

He had stopped her because he wanted to hurt the weakling, to show him that he was not welcome at the compound anymore. That had been his initial intention. As he watched her glowing face drain of all its color, however, he realized that he had wanted to hurt her, too.

The weakling only stayed long enough to fling the cups he was carrying against the wall, give Bulma the most angry glare he could muster, and race back down the hall. She stood like a statue in the doorway, moving only to brace herself against it with one arm.

"You knew he was there. That's why you stopped me."

When she turned to face him, he saw that he had accomplished what he wanted – to set the piteous little paradise she had dreamed up for them ablaze. He tainted everything he touched, but as he watched the innocence leave her he experienced the foreign, wrenching sensation of regret.

She left just as the first tear was falling. He made no move to stop her, but monitored her ki as he prepared himself for a long day of training. He didn't know what he would feel if she were to chase after the weakling, but he knew she wouldn't. He had noted the hopeful look in her eyes when he said her name.

He was the Saiyan Prince, a ruthless and seasoned mercenary, and not at all what she wanted him to be. If she could not handle reality, then it was none of his affair, and he need not concern himself with her any longer. Yes, she was beautiful, but he could not abide distractions any longer, no matter how tempting.

When he returned to his room later that night, she was not there. He tried to close his eyes and put it from his mind, but as the moon rose and the night grew darker, it was all he could do to stifle his terror.

**. . .**

Lady Rhapsody

Opening poem (as usual) by Rilke.

(( Thank you everyone for your kind reviews and support. It means the world to me, especially after returning to the fandom from a long absence. I am doing steady work on "Camouflage", and editing/re-working a fic I wrote for Adimra's website back in 2000 under my former pennam : : called "Unpretty". Look for updates on both throughout the summer. If you decide to leave a review, thank you in advance. ))


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